John Vance Cheney

The weasel thieves in silver suit,
   The rabbit runs in gray;
And Pan takes up his frosty flute
   To pipe the cold away.
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Not in the time of pleasure
Hope doth set her bow;
But in the sky of sorrow,
Over the vale of woe.
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NATURE reads not our labels, “great” and “small”;
Accepts she one and all
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PUT out thy torch, O watcher by the dead,
Unto the darkness give its own;
Silence and darkness - they alone
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'WHITHER, pilgrims, whither bound,
Passing slowly with no sound?'
One by one they journey by,
Gliding, gliding silently;
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THE SKILFUL listener, he, methinks, may hear
The grass blades clash in sunny field together,
The roses kissing, and the lily, whether
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DOST deem him weak that owns his strength is tried?
Nay, we may safely lean on him that grieves:
The pine has immemorially sighed,
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WHITHER leads this pathway, little one?—
It runs just on and on, is never done.
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Who drives the horses of the sun
   Shall lord it but a day;
Better the lowly deed were done,
   And kept the humble way.
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Wherever a green blade looks up,
A leaf lisps mystery,
Whereso a blossom holds its cup
A mist rings land or sea,
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SWIFT round and round yon yellow mound,
With grasses rank and pale,
Race stiffened leaves; a waking sound
Is on the autumn gale.
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As out of the dark the stars,
Broke forth the heavenly bars
Of passion strong,
The wild bird’s song,
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I think it better to believe,
And be even as the children, they
The children of the early day,
Who let the kindly dreams deceive,
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COULD I put up my hand and pluck a star,
I would give that power
To be one hour
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DAYS that come and go,
It is not worth the while;
Only one dawn I know,
The morning of her smile.
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I

THE BIRDS have hid, the winds are low,
The brake is awake, the grass aglow:
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OAK leaves are big as the mouse’s ear,
So, farmer, go plant. But the frost—
Beware! the witch o’ the year,
See that her palm be crossed.
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OUT on a world that has run to weed!
The great tall corn is still strong in his seed;
Plant her breast with laughter, put song in your toil,
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ENOUGH of sweet and fair
Hovers for hope to see;
Enough for hope is the summer air,
The song in the summer tree.
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Take of the maiden's and the mother's sigh,
Of childhood's dream, and hope that age doth bless,
Of roses and the south wind's tenderness,
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